


The Shape of Violence (working title)

by MsViral



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Corruption, F/M, Gay Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Violence, Power Dynamics, Psychological Trauma, Rough Sex, Violence, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 01:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsViral/pseuds/MsViral
Summary: Formerly titled "Anomalies of Life" over on FF.netZexion is haunted by a past he doesn't fully remember, and holds a power he can barely control. He thinks he's the only one - until he meets Demyx. Now, he finds himself pulled back into the system that imprisoned him, and questions about his past are coming back to shatter everything he thought he knew. How long have they been lying to him, and does he really want to know the truth?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written and posted on FF.net back in 2008. I have decided on rewriting the four chapters I managed to get done, to not only give the story more detail, but to help flush the idea out better and hopefully assist me in remembering how I wanted this story to eventually end.
> 
> To the readers who followed this on FF.net - the first four chapters will basically have the same things happen, but I strongly urge you to reread what I've rewritten, because I've changed the flow and altered some things.
> 
> To new readers - I hope you enjoy the story I'm unfolding.

Seeping, turning black along the edges, pooling in the cracks and crevices, bleeding out...

The world was awash in bright flashes of red, blue, red, blue, throwing shadows and faces into stark contrast – fear, anger, fear, hatred, fear... A soft hiss of static, crackling with voices, filled with intent, questions.

The smell is the worst, he thinks. The soft, wet, rotten smell of meat, right as it starts to spoil...

A sob breaks the ambiance, a figure huddled in the corner. The bright red, blue, red, blue, flash of light, shows dark smears covering pale skin, thins strands of brown spilling over hunched shoulders, shivering, shaking...

Everything feels surreal. Men stand, shock still, afraid to move. Is anything there real?

Could a child possibly...

This child, shimmer grey-lilac hair, softly falling over an impassive face, eyes an endless dark abyss... Covered, drenched, splattered, in dark red, drip, drip, dripping from small fists...

What are you doing?

His eyes move, to the woman in the corner, the men, red, blue, red, blue, red... What is real? The shadows condense and move, alive, fingers reaching out, curling.

No.... not them... not here, he shivers, shudders... No, not again...

Be still, it's okay...

Soft white, blurring the edges... Sharp pain, stinging, crippling...

NOOOSTOPPLEASESTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-

XxXxXxX

“WAKE UP!” Pounding resumes, startling him awake. He jerks up, head rushing with the quick movement, adding to his already pounding headache, heartbeat erratic and fast in his chest. “GODDAMN IT ZEXION, ANSWER ME OR SO HELP ME-” Pounding again, mixed with several colorful curses. Dark eyes cut to the door, watching with rapt attention as the frame shakes a little, the wood starting to splinter around the lock from the abuse. Letting out a shaky breath, running clammy hands across his face, he tosses the blankets aside and swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing up on legs that feel still too weak.

The room feels too small, confining, and suffocating. Taking a moment to open the window, let in some air, even if it doesn't actually help – the city was still gripped by an insufferable heatwave, and though it was still early in the morning, the air was already sticky, leaving a film of sweat on your skin, adding another layer of discomfort – he hopes that maybe today, something will change. A faint hint of ozone lingers in the meager breeze, a promise of rain.

Along the opposite wall sits a vanity, the mirror reflecting back a pale, thin waif of a man – skin stretched over a small frame, muscle lean from days spent endlessly walking, eyes puffy and sunken into a haggard, worn face, light hair hanging limply and clinging to his sweat soaked neck. A shirt had felt like too much when he went to bed the previous night, and the shorts hanging low on his narrow hips now felt heavy and cumbersome. Long fingers traced over the waistband momentarily, debating removing the offending article, before another round of pounding diverted his attention. Oh, right. The door.

“ZEXI-” The shouting was abruptly stopped, door swinging open. Forehead beating bright red, peeling white where the burn was healing at the edges, eyes a dull muddy brown, set into a mess of angry lines. “Zexion. So happy you could be BOTHERED to answer your door...” His already thin lips get thinner, pulled back from yellowed teeth.

“I'm sorry. I'm not feeling... well...” It's not a total lie, but then, lying isn't a problem for Zexion. The problem is that it's too close to the truth, but he's tired, and wants to be rid of the man quickly. “Is there a problem...?”

“Your rent. It's past due. I'm not letting you loaf around here for free, so pay. Up.” Thick pudgy fingers, calloused palm, held out. Lips curled into a snear. “Unless you wanna find out how... ugly... the city can truly be... to someone... like you...” The threat isn't much of a threat – not really, Zexion knows that of the things this man knows about him, his sexuality is the least damaging and not good enough leverage for much of anything – but he humors him, schools his face into the appropriate appearance of worry, going as far as to take a small step back and act frightened.

“Yes, of course... I'm sorry, I'll get it for you... Right away...” He turns away, aware of how the man is unashamedly looking over his body, pushing down his urge to gag, and walks to the vanity, getting out his wallet and pulling out his recent checks earnings. The money is rough against his fingers, crisp, with a slight acidic, chemical smell – the mark of new bills, fresh from the bank. He thumbs through it quickly, counting, then slips the appropriate amount out and puts the rest away. When he turns back around, his landlord has taken upon himself to step into his room, looking around at the numerous stacks of books and paper.

“You read all this?” He asks, taking the money from Zexion's hands, fingers briefly brushing – disgusting – then proceeds to recount the money he's been handed.

“I have, yes.” It's a sufficient enough response, and he isn't really paying attention anymore.

“Looks like it's all here... Good. Next time I have to come collect, expect your ass out on the curb. Got it?” A nod. Satisfied, for the time being, he finally leaves, slamming the door harder then necessary. 

The facade falls, eyebrows now knitted together in both frustration and pain. Turning to the vanity again, he picks up an unmarked pill bottle, popping the top and shaking out several small white tablets, no bigger then his pinky nail. The bottle rattles hollowly, signaling a need to restock soon. The water from the small sink in what would technically be his kitchen – situated as it were, right next to the foot of his bed, and coupled with a small stove-top not much wider than himself and some shoddy half-assed cupboards nailed to the wall above – comes out warm and tastes slightly bitter, but he forces himself to swallow the pills, and takes a moment to just... breathe...

The dream again. No, the nightmare, he corrects himself. It happens still, years later, and often without prompt. The details always have a fuzzy, vague feeling around the edges, as if it's been faded out by time – but the feelings it causes, those are sharp as ever. Worn out, tired, drained.

Hollow Bastian was not a pretty town. When he moved here, it was from necessity. The town had once been a beautiful, prosperous port, but an incident several years prior had damaged it's reputation and run off business. Details were still lacking, but what was known was that children had gone missing.

A lot of children.

Don't...

Fingers curl into damp hair and pull, bringing stinging tears to bloodshot eyes. Don't think about it. The clock on the wall says it's half past nine, which gives him a couple hours to do as he pleases before his shift at the bookstore starts. More than enough time to shower and go refill his prescription. He turns and opens the middle drawer to the vanity, digging out a towel and stooping to pick up his toiletries before turning to leave for the communal showers down the hall.

This time he avoids looking at his reflection.

XxXxXxX

For as long as he can remember, he's been restless.

The sun is making it's progress across the sky, and the air is heavy with the stench of so many bodies occupying the same space, he can practically taste the people around him, making his stomach queasy. He's grateful that he hadn't much of an appetite when he left home, he didn't think he could keep anything down if he tried. The sidewalks were already packed with pedestrians, mothers toting along children carrying their school bags, men in suits heading to the office, women made up to go work their day jobs – several who looked to have finished a night shift and were heading home, mascara streaked across their cheeks like blackened tears. On the corner of Main, an older woman, one of the night workers he's used to seeing, tends to a younger girl, one that looks barely old enough to be doing what she's getting trained to do. As he passes, she briefly glances his way, the corner of her painted lips twitching up in a half-smile, but the woman quickly pulls her around, leaning in to whisper and point at his retreating form. The ladies of the night – those who worked these parts and knew him by sight – were quick to point him out to the new girls. They knew they would not get anything from him.

In the past, he would have entertained the idea of a nighttime companion. But the one time he had chosen to bring one of the girls home with him had ended with disappointment, mostly for himself. He had paid the girl a fair amount for her troubles, seen to it she had gotten back to her spot safely, but it had been a night of learning for both of them. He learned that his tastes were not conventional – and she learned how to better pick her clients.

Still, there were other areas of town, seedier areas, where he could get someone who suited his tastes. But after that night, he found that paying for company was tasteless, and that he would rather remain in solitude. Most humans were insufferable, on the best of days, and most found his company to be... lacking. In the end, he turned to books, finding that reading was the only small pleasure he could find to help escape.

Escape...

Zexion's situation was unlike those around him. The city itself was separated into thirteen sectors, radiating out from the main central capitol. The further out from the capitol, the less likely you were to be living life in luxury. Sector 6, as it stood, was not the absolute worst, and he was thankful for that, but it was still far enough out to be lacking. The buildings were old and crumbling slowly, held together with quick patchwork in many spots, giving them a Frankenstein's monster sort of appearance. The people matched the city in much the same way – barely held together, grinning through the worst of things, eyes hollowed out and devoid of soul. Some got lucky and managed to pass the necessary paperwork to upgrade to Sector 5 – but it was a long and painstakingly expensive process that many could not afford. For the rest, the only hope they had was to remain where they were, lest they get moved to Sector 7, or worse. For Zexion, Sector 6 would remain, forever, his home, whether he liked it or not.

Much of his childhood was a blank – a spot in time where he seemingly didn't exist, and then suddenly, he did. From age twelve to fifteen, he cycled through foster homes and test facilities, rooms filled with serile hospital equipment, blood tests, psyche evaluations, and one extremely painful ordeal that left him branded with a number, and a file with all his information kept locked up in another lab, probably somewhere in Sector 1. They knew he was dangerous – his powers only grew as he became an adult – but they also knew they could put him on a tight leash and restrict his movements. With severe consequences dangled like a hangman's noose, ready to lynch him at any given moment, he was allowed to assimilate into society with extreme restrictions.

Never leave your designated Sector.  
If you are found to have used your powers in a harmful manner towards any person(s) you will be punished.  
If you are seen as being threatening or unstable mentally, you will be removed from your current living situation and relocated to the nearest facility for reevaluation.  
If suspected of illegal or immoral activities involving use of your powers, you will be held accountable.  
You will subject yourself to testing once a month for continued monitoring of your powers.  
If you are seen as being difficult or a cause for alarm, you will be removed.

When he first developed his powers, it didn't amount to much. Creating simple illusions, plays of light and shadow, were essentially harmless. But as he matured, the illusions became more real. At one point, Zexion had trouble seeing through his own illusions to the truth, and that was when everything had spiraled out of his control. Those memories were still buried deep where he could not find them – but the nightmare was real enough to prevent him from trying to unearth them. He didn't want to know what had happened – it was in the past.

In the present, he was able to scrape by with a job at the local bookstore. It was a small, shabby, hole in the wall type of space, with shelves crammed full of books that had seen better days, many that were barely held together, spines slowly peeling away. It was the only place in town that sold books though, and Zexion needed those written words more than breath – the stories contained would be the only way for him to see the world outside this mess, and though he was paid far too little for all the work he put into the place, he refused to leave. This was as much his job as his salvation.

He gazed up at the small storefront sign, so sun-faded and worn by weather that no one knew what it used to be named. The current owner didn't care to replace the sign, or to give the store a name, so it was often just refereed to as Books. Zexion found that he liked the simplistic nature of it.

A glance at his watch confirmed that he still had about half an hour before his shift, and the pharmacy was just down a little further and around the corner. His bag thumps against his hip with each step, sweat clings and runs in rivets down his neck and back, making the black shirt stick uncomfortably to his skin. Having just showered only an hour prior, the heat makes it feel like it had been a waste of his time. A glance down at his shoes – sun-bleach converse, toe scuffed – then back up in time to get shoved roughly as another man passes, walking the opposite way. He stops and glances at his retreating back, briefly weighs the pros and cons of giving the guy something to haunt his sleep later, and decides it's not worth the risk or time. Besides – his head is already killing him, and the day has barely started.

Around the corner and down two more stores and there, the pharmacy. Faded white sign, black block lettering – simple. When he pushes the door open, a small bell on top jingles noisily, announcing a customer to the room. Behind the counter at the far side, opposite the door, sits an older gentleman with graying hair and spectacles, face gaunt, skin stretched thin over a hunched frame. At the sound of the bell, he stops what he's doing – measuring out some powder or other into a pouch sitting atop a scale – his lips forming a thin line.

“Zexion.” It's a statement of fact, not a greeting. “Didn't I just see you last week?” His hands resume their work, carefully pouring the powder out, watching the numbers on the scale tick up. Zexion walks further into the room, coming to stand at the counter, pulling out the almost empty pill bottle and setting it down.

“I'm afraid I need a refill sooner then I expected. But then again, you shorted me last week by five doses.” The words are bitter and drip disdain – this isn't the first time he didn't receive the correct amount, and it was getting tiresome that he had to keep reminding the man of this. He wasn't sure if the old man was turning senile, or just being a prick.

“I didn't short you. You got exactly what they told me to give you.” With long fingers, he picks up the bottle and holds it up to Zexion's face, one yellowed nail tapping at the label where the prescription amount is typed out. “You want to complain about your doses, you should take it up with your doctor.”

Disbelief washes through him. How had he not noticed that? He shakily takes the bottle back, reading over the label again – it's true, the dosage has been cut almost twice what he normally receives. And yes, some days he took more then what was recommended, but he always calculated it out and managed to ration the pills out to last the same amount of time between refills. Why would they start cutting back on him? A look past the bottle got him caught in a stare-down with the pharmacist, one eyebrow raised, gazed narrowed slightly.

“Don't fight me on this, kid. I don't have any control over it.” A faint note of sympathy resides in his words, but just barely. In this city, it wasn't uncommon to see someone build an unhealthy addiction to whatever pills the doctors were willing to shell out, and he had witnessed, in this very room, some of the junkies who had to be escorted out by force. Right now, he was getting a look that very clearly read, Please don't make this difficult.

“Right. Of... of course...” Swallowing around the uncomfortable lump that had formed, he placed the bottle back in his bag. “I'll just... call them and straighten things out...” The old man nodded, turning back to his work, seemingly happy that Zexion wasn't going to cause problems for him. Nothing more to say, he turned and walked back out, the heat of the morning washing back over him in a rolling wave, the last notes of the door bell getting cut off as the door closed behind him.

In a daze, he starts walking back towards work, pulling his phone from his bag and flicking it on. What were they thinking? He needed those pills. Why would they start cutting him off now? The headache was growing already, even with the pills he had taken that morning. The contact list on the phone screen blurs – he blinks and rubs at his eyes tiredly, trying to bring things back in focus. Distracted as he is, he belatedly feels the push against his arm, jerking his phone out of his grasp, sending it clattering to the ground.

“Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry!” A soft feminine voice exclaims, and before he can reach for his dropped phone, a pale hand comes into view and grabs it for him. He follows the hand up a slender arm, to the soft round shoulder, over the thin strap of a white dress, up an elegant neck, to a doll-like face, large blue eyes bright, cheeks dusted a light pink. Soft wisps of blonde hair cling to the edges of her face, framing it like a halo, giving her an almost angelic quality, and he finds his voice has left him when he tries to speak.

“It was my fault, I wasn't paying attention. I hope your phone is ok.” Almost as if he's experiencing this out-of-body, he watches as she takes his hand in hers – and her skin is cool and dry, at great contrast to the sweltering heat – placing the phone into his palm and closing his fingers around it. Her hand retreats, and he finds his gaze following it as she pulls away and turns to leave.

Words are on the tip of his tongue, but as he watches her leave, he catches a glimpse of her eyes, veiled behind her hair, and stops short – breath coming fast, a sudden sense of panic rushing through his mind. Everything seems to stop, except for her, as she moves away, becoming lost in the crowd, her white presense evaporating, eaten up by the waves coming off the concrete. As soon as she's no longer in sight, he feels everything wash out of him, leaving him drained and shaking. People are walking around him, giving him strange looks, and it's this fact that gets him moving again, propels him forward, heading to work once more. The grip he holds on his phone is almost crushing, the hard plastic creaking in protest, but he doesn't give it any thought, having forgotten what he wanted with it.

Walking helps the shaking, settling his frazzled nerves, and he finds that he can't remember what set him off. Glancing down he sees his hand, clenched white around his phone, and quickly shoves the device in his bag, a dull throb starting in his fingers now that he's not holding anything.

How strange...

Rounding the corner, he finds himself bumping into what feels like a wall, but after recoiling back and hearing a soft 'oooff!', looks up into a pair of aqua-green eyes, framed by chunks of dirty blonde hair. Three people, he thinks. In one day, he's managed to bump into three people.

“Oh, shit! Sorry man, I didn't see you there...” The person – a young man, it seems – looks down at Zexion, lips forming into an apologetic grin, lips curling up on one side, head tilted a little, eyes squinted against the sun. His entire body exudes a relaxed, easy-going manner, hands shoved into denim pockets, a worn white wife-beater hanging off a lean athletic frame, corded muscle evident in his bared upper arms. His teeth flash bright white against the tanned skin of his face, sun-kissed comes to mind as being the more appropriate term for how he seems to just glow.

“Hey, you ok dude?” Zexion blinks, finding a large hand waving in front of his face, flashes of red, blue, yellow, green – a whole raindow, really – wrapped around the wrist, taking the form of cheap plastic bands, overlapping and bunched-up. He follows the hand up and back to the mans face, clearing his throat almost inaudibly and bringing himself back to the matter at hand.

“I'm fine, sorry..” He gets out, taking a small step away and making to move past this stranger – who follows and tracks his movements with eyes too sharp, too piercing for his liking.

“Oh yeah, cool cool! I'm glad to hear that! But hey, don't rush off! I mean, if you're busy, yeah, I get that, but I'm actually kind of lost? I can't remember how I got to this part of town, was really hoping someone could give me a hand getting back...” His voice is lyrical – the words themselves are pointless and the sentence structure is severely lacking, but he thinks, this voice is meant for song. Right now though, it is irritating, and obnoxious, and preventing him from getting to work.

“Listen, I'm sorry I ran into you. And I'm sorry, but I really have no time to play tour guide with you, if you need help, I suggest you try the nearest police station, it's down further and up on Gummy Lane.” He motions behind him, a quick irritated gesture of the wrist, and moves past the blonde, who has stopped his rambling to turn and follow after him, long legs easily keeping stride.

“Dude, what's crawled up your ass and died?” The comment is shocking, enough to stop him and turn his attention back, causing the man to stumble to an abrupt halt. “I mean- ok, you're obviously busy, but that tone? Just now? Kind of came off like a prick, sorry man. You always this shitty when you talk to strangers?”

“First, I feel like I gave you exactly enough information for you to adequetely get where you needed to be. Second, it really does not concern you if I am, and I quote, 'this shitty' to complete strangers. Now, if you are finished, I need to get to work...” Without waiting to see if he was, in fact, finished, he turned to walk again. A firm hand around his arm halted his steps, and he felt white-hot rage burn behind his eyes.

“Seriously? Dude, what is your-” He didn't get to finish whatever his question was, because Zexion had had enough by this point. His free arm came around, fist striking against the arm of the hand holding onto him. The blonde let out a startled yelp and fell back, holding his arm against his body. “FUCK! Geeze, man, calm down!” But Zexion was finished. Finished with the whole day, with everything that had happened since waking up. He took advantage of the situation and pushed forward, forcing the other man to take several steps back, eyes wide.

“I. Am. FINISHED. With everyone, always pressing me with the endless questions and wasting. My. Time.” He puncuated his statement with a firm shove of his hand against the other's shoulder, sending him sprawling back, tripping over the raised crack in the sidewalk. “I am tired of you people always-” His comment stopped short, eyes glancing down, as the blonde's top had ridden up in his fall, showing a sliver of his stomach and the jut of a sharp hip – as well as an ugly healed over burn, the skin puckered and pink, stretched taunt over the muscle underneath, the shape vaguely resembling-

The next second, things were extremely... wet.

He wasn't sure how it happened, or why, but when he manages to get his breath back, he's sopping wet and slumped against the building across the street. The back of his head is throbbing, from where he must have hit it against the brick, adding an extra spike to the ache he had been dealing with all morning. Still stunned, he looks down and, yes, he is very much soaked through, drenched in water, and he really can't figure out why. He's vaguely aware of the sound of people around him, not too close, but they're forming a crowd, and then the sound of sneakers hitting wet pavement coming up to him. The blonde comes into view, kneeling down to be eye-level, a look of guilt crossing his face.

“SHIT, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I really shouldn't have done that... SHITSHITSHIIIIIT!” His hands hover, as though he's afraid to touch him. “It was a reflex, honest, you just pissed me off, and hey, normally, I don't let things get to me, but you, man...” His hands finally decide on an action, hand coming up to rest on Zexion's shoulder, the other moving as if to swipe the hair off his face...

No.

The blonde's hand freezes, as Zexion lets his powers flow out. The green eyes loose focus and gain a frightened, far-away glazed look, and Zexion can feel, through the hand still on him, how he begins to shake. He's not sure what the man is seeing, because right now Zexion doesn't have complete control over the illusion, but it's enough to stop him from touching him more.

“Y-you... w—waait... how...?” His voice cracks, but instead of moving back, like Zexion felt he should, he moves towards him, eyes fixing on Zexion's face, but not focusing completely. “Like... us?”

He's not sure what to think of that statement, but he doesn't get to think long on it. Sirens are going off, and the crowd is growing around them. Effortlessly, he brushes the mans hand off him and moves to get up.

Why...

Searing white hot pain laces through his mind, vision tunneling down and everything suddenly spins. Not again, the shadows are moving in on the edges, and the screams – he only realizes, belatedly, the screams are coming from him, but everything is becoming washed-out and faded, and darkness is beckoning him down with warm arms-

XxXxXxX

**Author's Note:**

> The next three chapters should come out in the following weeks without too much delay, as I'm simply rewriting them. After that, it's a gamble on how often they will be posted! I apologize in advance, I can be a horrible procrastinator.
> 
> Hit me up on Tumblr: MsViral


End file.
